Kiss My Eyes
by larkgrace
Summary: there is always one of us. One of me. I am the girl you speak of in whispers. I am the girl with no face. I am faceless because I am blind. I am Andromeda Grace Jackson, and this is my story. K  for fight scenes.
1. Prologue: Faceless

**Okay, this is the story of Percy and Annabeth's daughter. Don't expect an update every other day, because I have three stories going at once—this is the only one I published—and I'm kinda working through writer's block. I don't own PJO, or anything else in this story that needs a copyright sign next to it. Enjoy.**

.:Prologue—Faceless:.

There is always one of us. One of me. I am the girl you speak of in whispers—whispers you don't realize I can hear. I am the girl who stops all conversation when she enters a room. I am the girl with no face.

That's not entirely true, of course. I _do_ have a face—everyone does. And yet, for me, no one does. My parents—Percy and Annabeth Jackson—do not have faces. My best friend, Michele Rush, does not have a face. My other close friends, Savannah Hibbert and Harmony Stamper, do not have faces. No one does.

I do not have a face. I do not exist to everyone else, everyone _normal_.

I am faceless because I am blind.

I am Andromeda Grace Jackson, and this is my story.

**Sorry it's so short, but it's only the prologue. I'm working on Chapter one. Update will be coming—hopefully soon! Review and you get a virtual pound cake!**


	2. Chapter One: Incomplete

**A/N Hey, I'm baaaack! Didja miss me?**

**Andi: No.**

**Me: Too bad. I do not own PJO or Prelude 12/21. Read on!**

**Andi: PLEASE! I want to find out **_**when I get my freaking quest**_**.**

**Me: Impatient! Besides, you lived it!**

.:Chapter 1—Incomplete:.

I was born with incomplete eyes. My retinas never formed; in short, a piece of my eyeball was missing.

From the time I was five, I had an incomplete social life. I was branded a freak. I knew I was different, of course, but I never knew _how_ different. I got a very rude awakening.

It was a nice, warm June afternoon, and Michele and her mom had taken me to Central Park. I loved the place—the smells, the sounds, the feel of grass under my feet—and there were so many new people to meet.

Michele and I were talking to two kids, a boy and a girl, who were about our age. They had pleasant, kind voices, and seemed eager to talk, despite the fact that my eyes were blank and empty. Then their mother came and hustled them away. With my exceptional senses, I could hear her warn them to "Stay away from _that_ girl; she's not normal."

When I got back to Camp Half-Blood—back home—I asked Mom and Dad why the mean lady thought I wasn't normal. Mom said, "Andi, sweetheart, some people are just like that. They won't accept anyone who isn't like them."

"So I'm not like other people?" I asked, tears trickling down my cheeks.

Mom backtracked. "No, I didn't—that's not what I meant. Besides, it's no fun being like everyone else."

The couch springs shifted, and I felt Dad's arm wrap around me. "You know, people always thought your mom and I were weirdoes, too," he said, trying to cheer me up.

I shrugged out from under his arm and counted my way to the hall (turn left, two steps, left again, ten steps) and muttered, "No, people thought you and Mom were heroes." I shuffled my way down to my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

That night was the first time I prayed to the gods to be normal.

That was also the first of many nights I cried myself to sleep.

When I was six, my knowledge of colors was incomplete. I questioned my parents endlessly—what color were my shoes? They described white as light and good and pure and innocent and beautiful. What color was my shirt? Orange was excited and full of energy and a little angry. What color was the grass? Green was happy and soft and laughter and a little mean. It went on like that for hours, with them describing every color for me. My lips were pink and sweet and cute and lovable and delicate. My eyes were gray and smart and stormy and hard and closed-off. I asked what color my hair was, and they said "black".

"Oh," I mumbled, and fired off a question about the lake.

"Wait," Mom said, "don't you want to know what black is?"

"I know what black is," I told her, "Black is dark and scary and empty and useless. Just like me. I live in constant black. I hate it."

That night, I prayed to Apollo to heal my eyes. I told him I wanted to leave behind the black.

That night, I cried myself to sleep.

From the time I was thirteen, _I _felt incomplete. Every day, every sound or smell or taste that should've had a sight to complement it made the emptiness in my chest throb a little. Every creak of a bowstring, every whistle of a dagger, every _whoosh_ of a dying monster is met with a hollow feeling.

Every night, I lie on my bed and listen to _Prelude12/21_ by AFI.

_This is what I brought you, this you can keep,_

_ This is what I brought you may forget me_

_ I promise to depart, just promise one thing_

_ Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep_

It never made me feel any better. Nothing could save my eyes.

But one day, I swore, I wouldn't _need_ anyone to save me. One day, I would depart.

One day, I wouldn't be a burden.

**A/N So, yeah. That was depressing.**

**Andi: No kidding. And hey, why were you gone so long? I thought for a while you died or something. Not that I care.**

**Me: You better care. I'm the one writing your life story, remember? I could do some very nasty things to you and your family…**

**Andi: Aren't you going to do that in the next chapt—**

**Me: Shh! You'll give it away! And I was gone because I had a swim meet and homework and I'm getting ready to start an original story and—**

**Andi: Yeah, yeah, we get it. Hey, people, review! Or else!**

**Me: What are you going to do? Stare them to death?**

**Andi: Ha ha. Very funny. Oh, and for anyone out there who cares, the next chapter is called **_**Music**_**. Try to guess what that has to do with anything exciting… **


End file.
